


part i: the speed that we were going

by oliverwvvd



Series: if there's a reason [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 17:54:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11064138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliverwvvd/pseuds/oliverwvvd
Summary: This is war and nothing is fair, and Oliver’s learning the hard way that there are things he wants to protect; that the price of Marcus Flint’s smile isn’t something he’s willing to pay. There are things he’s willing to lose, and he slowly figures out that Flint isn’t one of them.





	part i: the speed that we were going

_ { This is gonna hurt but I blame myself first, cause I ignored the **truth** } _

_War_. It’s a word that tastes like smoke in the back of Oliver’s throat, like the cigarettes he never used to touch that he now occasionally finds himself lighting up for relief. It doesn’t stop his hands from shaking every time a new name is added to the list of the dead and the missing, particularly if it’s a name that he knows. They all have their tics, the Order and those who run with them, in more danger now than they’ve ever been; lives winking out with the briefness of struck matches, candles in the night that are snuffed out. They all have their coping mechanisms. Pacing, swearing, smoking, drinking, talking it out; the ways in which they deal with it or fail to deal with it are too numerous to count.

Wood has never been a high-ranking name amongst wizarding families, but Oliver himself has been a public name from the moment that he started playing Keeper for Puddlemere United, moved from reserve to the first team in a matter of months. While there’s presently no suspicion of his affiliation with the Order of the Phoenix publicly, he’s finding it difficult to maintain the front and knows that it’s only a matter of time before he cracks and it’s discovered, before he slips up. He’s been at it for months now, this double life, and it seems unlikely that he won’t be found out eventually. His parents have already quietly disappeared from view, his heart in his throat every time he doesn’t hear from them for a day too long, and he knows that no one will look for them, no one will find them. There are advantages to being overlooked, to not being prominent enough to prove a possible threat. When he meets Bill and Charlie Weasley’s grave expressions at Order meetings, he knows that they don’t have that luxury, and that there are so many families that don’t. It makes him want to bare his teeth, inspires the ferocious need to _protect_ those who might not be able to protect themselves. That’s why he’s in the Order, why he answered the furtive distress call that came his way one evening in the form of a tenuous at best radio signal and the sound of the Weasley twins’ voices.

There were people there he’d never met before, at that first meeting; people with grim faces, scars and demons in their eyes that didn’t get spoken aloud. He’s found his place among them, somehow, his reflection nowadays carrying a much darker cast than it used to, cheekbones sharper and eyes more cynical. The old energy that he used to channel solely into Quidditch is concentrated now on staying alive, on keeping as many people safe as possible.

But tonight, there is a new name on the lists of the dead and the missing. One he never thought he’d hear, one he hasn’t thought about since he left Hogwarts, not really, or so he tells himself.

_Marcus Flint; Chaser for Montrose Magpies, previously suspected of carrying the Dark Mark, disappeared from his home and currently reported missing on the Ministry’s lists for deliberately resisting arrest._

In a few sentences, all of the calm he’d drawn together has been dismantled. While he and Flint had been rivals, not friends, hearing of the possible choices that the other has had to make, the path he might have died trying to avoid walking, makes him re-evaluate what he thought he’d known at school. He’s been doing a lot of that lately, having to examine his own knowledge of people and trade it out for new knowledge, because one thing the silent attrition of the war so far has taught him is that _everything he knows is falling apart_. Taking a shaking breath and another drag of the cigarette between his fingertips, the fingers of his free hand rub together, an aching vacancy between them. It’s just another space in him that remains empty, because he has so little left to hold onto that he can trust.

Instead, he thinks of Marcus Flint, of fist fights and black eyes and sly grins, of fouls and smirks exchanged across a Quidditch pitch, of the constant game of one-upmanship that never really got resolved, just suspended when they left Hogwarts into the barest minimum of professional courtesy. He doesn’t allow himself to acknowledge how much the idea of Flint, _Marcus_ possibly being dead hurts him, because he doesn’t understand _why_ it would mean anything at all.

He suspects that he’ll learn the hard way, eventually.

He’s right.

* * *

_ { Knew we would **crash** at the speed that we were going /  _ _ Didn’t care if the explosion **ruined** me } _

Oliver is woken in the middle of the night by a frantically voiced Patronus from Fred Weasley, telling him to _get out, get out **now** Wood, they know!_

He’s been prepared for this possibility for months. His flat’s barely furnished, a small place tucked away in an ordinary corner of Glasgow. The belongings he can’t stand to lose were stored in the family Gringotts vault months ago, rendered largely inaccessible. Pulse racing, he shifts from the sofa where he’d fallen asleep fully dressed, and picks up the backpack that holds almost everything else he owns (he’s been living out of it for ages, just in case), packed tightly in with an Undetectable Extension Charm. He draws his wand with the kind of speed owed solely to his Keeper’s reflexes and casts a quick protection charm that will hopefully last long enough for him to focus on Apparition. He knows that despite the haste required, splinching himself isn’t going to help matters, so he takes a few seconds to centre himself.

It almost kills him, because as he turns on the spot, there’s an explosion through the wall that shatters brick and plaster and wood in a shower of splinters and larger pieces, too close to call. He doesn’t have a physical shield up, only a defence against magic. It knocks him off his feet, but it _misses_ , leaves scratches along his face and his temples that he can feel beginning to trickle with blood, a scraped gash along one cheekbone, deafens him in one ear that only registers ringing. He doesn’t have time to let himself feel the pain of it, because there’s the sound of steps and he’ll be arrested or die if he doesn’t _move_. There’s a hex on his lips that reverberates against the walls as it hits the first dark target that materialises in front of him, and it saves him, because it sends whoever it is stumbling backwards before they crumple in a heap. It buys him time that’s otherwise run out. He casts a Blasting Curse in his wake as he leaps to his feet and Apparates, disappearing from the debris of his old life in the space of seconds, knowing that he’s never going to be able to go back. He doesn’t have the luxury of mourning it. None of them do.

When he reappears, he’s still several streets away from safety, and this, this is the most dangerous point, where he’s _almost_ there but not quite. This is the point where he could get caught, if he isn’t careful, so incredibly careful with what he does next. He was never going to head straight for temporary headquarters; he isn’t stupid, so he takes a far more circuitous route, to ensure that he’s not being followed and that he’s shaken any possible pursuit.

When he reaches the back door of Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes in Diagon Alley, all of the adrenaline leaves him, and the relief in the faces of the twins when they let him in is unmistakable. “Thought we might have been too late,” says Fred, clapping Oliver on one shoulder while George does the same to the other, the tightness of their fingers saying what their words don’t: _thank Merlin that we weren’t_. “And also, you should probably take a step back a minute while we warn our other guests that we’ve got company.”

Oliver’s brows draw together and he doesn’t understand, isn’t sure if the rush of adrenaline ebbing away has addled his brain until George reappears around the door and opens it more fully, revealing who else, exactly, is behind it. Though he registers Lee Jordan and a few others clustered around, to all appearances dealing with ongoing injuries or with heads bent in quiet discussion, there’s only one face that his eyes move unerringly to when he realises just _who_ is there and why the warning was necessary.

Marcus Flint doesn’t look any better than Oliver imagines he does; his hair’s a tangled, wavy wreck and there’s a split in his lower lip that is nowhere near healed, and he stands when he sees Oliver. “What the hell happened to you, Wood?” he asks, pacing towards him with the familiar confident tread that he remembers from school, that he didn’t realise he remembered so clearly until now. He doesn’t move, only meets the other’s eyes and addresses him with the kind of steadiness that the war has grown in him, because chaos has set root into his bones and the boughs of it are stuck beneath his ribs and between his teeth. “Not much different to what happened to you, wouldn’t have thought,” he says, his own voice sounding distant.

When Flint raises fingertips to touch the bleeding scratches on his forehead, he doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. “Congratulations, Weasley and Weasley, you’ve apparently forgotten every bit of medical training you learned in Quidditch.” The snipe is well-aimed and it’s only then that Oliver realises that everything is carrying a dull reverberating echo. “ _How_ , exactly, did you fail to spot that he’s in shock?” He doesn’t argue when Flint takes him by the elbow and drags him firmly to sit down, doesn’t register how _unusual_ the whole situation is, because he actually isn’t feeling very much of anything at all. “Wood, look at me, look right here.” Dutifully, he follows the instruction, looks up at brown eyes that appear to be examining him critically, then the other leans forward to pinch two fingers at the collar of the sweater he’s wearing. When they come away crimson, Flint swears under his breath and follows the streak of blood up Oliver’s neck to his left ear. “Are you dizzy?”

Oliver makes the mistake of shaking his head, jaw set, but the motion sets both ears to ringing and suddenly, that’s not quite true any longer. He shuts his eyes briefly until it goes away, and then answers, his voice rough with dust, “Not unless I move too vigorously.”

“Could’ve been worse,” Flint finally says, apparently done with his initial assessment of the situation. When he reaches towards his pocket, Oliver’s fingers close around his wand and he raises it to the other’s throat without even thinking about it, almost too quick to see. Everything inside him is very, very quiet, receding down to the point of his wand the way that it does when he’s preparing to fight for his life if necessary.

Flint’s smile is unexpected when he leans in closer, presses the battle-honed edge of Oliver’s wand deeper into his throat as though he’s been given an invitation that he’s wanted for _years_. “I’m not going to fight you today, Wood. I’m going to draw my wand, and we’re going to stop you from bleeding absolutely everywhere. But in order for me to do that, you need to stand down, or I’m going to have to knock you out and neither of us will enjoy it under the circumstances.” The words shouldn’t sound like an innuendo and they do anyway, but as it turns out, it’s exactly what’s needed to bring Oliver back to earth. It’s so familiar, so infuriatingly Flint, that it does in seconds what’s sometimes taken him _hours_ to come down from. Suddenly, abruptly, he’s there in his skin again, physically aware and with that comes pain. He lowers his wand, puts it away, and he hears Lee take a slow, relieved breath, because it’s not the first time something like this has happened in the aftermath of a disaster. Other people have done the exact same thing, and that’s why Oliver doesn’t apologise and why Flint doesn’t expect him to.

Instead, he speaks softly. “Thought you were a dead man, you know, Flint.”

Flint lifts an eyebrow, and it’s exactly as cocky as Oliver remembers, and _how_ does he remember that, exactly? “Takes a bit more than the Ministry’s ineptitude to knock me off the mortal coil, Wood. If Quidditch didn’t do me in, then some pretentious bastard who actually wasted time turning his name into an anagram sure as shit isn’t going to manage it either. Now shut up and let me heal you. You can explain exactly how you got into this state while I do.”

The volley of snorts in response to Flint’s words is universal, but the lightness in Oliver’s head is unwelcome and so is his awareness that a lot of what the other has just said comes from sheer bravado. The effort of it is in the other’s eyes and he doesn’t know _how_ he knows that, how he’s seeing it, how he’s suddenly conscious of all these things about Marcus Flint like he’s been asleep for years and has only just now woken up, finding all of this information stored at the back of his head that he has no idea what to do with.

And speaking of his head, it bloody well _hurts_ , which lets him know it’s probably not that bad of an injury. When Flint raises his wand, careful to keep the motions visible enough for Oliver to figure out what he’s doing, he stays still this time. “So,” Flint prompts. “What happened?”

“Well, I don’t suppose I’ll be going back to my flat,” Oliver says, voice dry. “Given that it’s now lacking an outside wall on one side.”

He hears someone suck in a breath, Angelina, he thinks, but he can’t be sure because Flint’s holding his chin to keep him steady while he works on cleaning the scratches. The bleach scent and burning sting of the disinfectant charm are an unwelcome jolt back into reality. “They blew through it?” Flint asks, and Oliver knows quite well it’s a distraction and he takes it. “Yeah, but I probably didn’t help. Thought it was a bit rude of them to visit without the proper invite, you see, so I might have done a wee Blasting Charm on my way out.”

Flint’s low, rumbling laugh (he’s only ever heard him laugh mockingly, this is new) is a surprisingly pleasant sound. “Figures you’d have to have the last word. Nice to know some things really haven’t changed.” There’s nothing but appreciation in the observation, but Oliver realises approximately ten seconds later that it’s a foil because whatever the _fuck_ he does next makes his eyes water and that takes some doing nowadays; he assumes splinter removal because he has no idea what’s stuck in the cuts. Around then is when it occurs to him that he should be asking more questions; such as, what the hell is Flint doing with the Order, and when exactly did that happen?

None of those questions make it to his lips, because it’s around then that Flint turns his attention to his bloodied left ear. There’s no pain when it’s touched, and he hears a soft _tsk_ sound. “Not sure what you’ve done here. Need a healer to look at that, as soon as we can get one.” When the other backs off out of his space, Oliver is suddenly cold with the absence and shivers. He zones out the sound of voices around him for a while, oddly distorted with the diminished register of sound on one side, lets them talk over him and around him, until Flint’s there again, leaning in. “Hey, Wood? Stay with us, I’m not carrying your sorry arse elsewhere if we have to leave in a hurry.”

He thinks he nods, but he isn’t sure. He’s so trapped in his own head at that second that talking just isn’t an option, because now his thoughts have gone straight back to his parents. _Please, let them be safe._

* * *

_ { Look at how things **change** , ‘cause now you’re the train, and I’m tied to the track } _

It takes a couple of days before Oliver has the chance to catch Flint by himself. When he does, it’s by accident rather than intention. Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes, as it turns out, is a very useful bolthole, members of the Order using it to Apparate in and out, rooms hidden within rooms built as failsafes by the twins. Despite its proximity to far riskier avenues, for now it’s impenetrable, a fortress disguised as a shop.

When Oliver walks into one of the bedrooms at the back, in the flat based above the shop that’s been magically expanded by the twins, he finds Flint, sat on one of the beds and idly smoking a cigarette. “Wood,” he greets him, not bothering to get up. “You look a damn sight better than you did.”

“Hestia Jones fixed me up,” he says, pointing at his ear. “But she says you did a fine job of cleaning up the worst.”

An exhale of smoke, lips pursing as he chases it outwards. “Is that so?” But he catches the hint of surprise, the slight amount of pleasure that Flint has clearly taken in the words. “Yeah. Thanks, Flint.”

At that point, the surprise is far more visible on the other’s face; Oliver gets the feeling that wasn’t something he was expecting to hear in this lifetime or the next. Rather than push the matter, he draws out his own pack of cigarettes, and that gets him an arched eyebrow. “Didn’t realise we shared bad habits as well as Quidditch pitches, Wood.”

“We didn’t before the war started,” Oliver says, flicking a lighter between his fingers and taking a drag on his own. “Or at least, not this one in particular.”

They smoke in what’s almost a companionable silence for a while, something like understanding in it. It’s only broken when Oliver asks the question that he’s wanted to ask since he clapped eyes on Flint again. “So, what happened to you?”

Flint shrugs. “What happens to anyone who refuses to follow a madman, Wood?” Dark eyes fasten to his. “They run, or they get killed where they stand. Not much of a choice, really, is it?” With a curl of lip, he pulls back his sleeve, shows a forearm with clean skin, unmarked. “Good enough for you?” The level of anger in the words is simmering, and it’s clear that Oliver’s hit a nerve he wasn’t actually aiming for, so he keeps his reply straightforward. “Already was.”

He sees the anger in Flint’s eyes fade, only to be replaced by confusion, which is almost more painful to watch, because he gets the feeling that these aren’t emotions the other usually lets close to the surface. “Come again?”

“Thought it was me that nearly lost hearing in one ear, Flint, not you,” Oliver deadpans. “You heard me the first time. It already was good enough for me, or I would’ve just hexed you a few days ago from the first off instead of pausing.” With a shrug of shoulders, he finishes his cigarette and vanishes the remnants and scent left behind, before he points out, “And that’s about to burn your fingers.” Marcus’ own cigarette has become one long cylindrical line of ash, one that’s quickly discarded into a nearby ashtray.

“I don’t understand you, Wood.”

“What don’t you understand?”

“Everything.”

Flint’s watching him, as though expecting him to bolt at any second, awaiting an explanation he clearly isn’t sure he’s going to get. Instead, Oliver lets his lips turn up into something perilously close to a smile. “We’re at war, Flint. Every ally is a gain.” It’s not quite the truth, but it’s as much of it as Oliver is willing to give, because he’s not even sure how to begin to quantify the other thoughts that have been occurring to him since the moment he found out Flint was alive. He can’t blame _all_ of it on hitting his head, as much as he’d like to play it off that way.

“Fair enough.” And just like that, there’s a silent truce, easier than anything else that Oliver has done in months.

* * *

_ { You’ve **awoken** me, but you’re choking me, I was so obsessed } _

It’s been an endless, horrible trail of days and weeks, mission after mission after almost being caught after fearing for others’ lives. When Oliver collapses onto the first empty bed that he can find in the Wizarding Wheezes hideout, he doesn’t actually care who it belongs to at this point, because he’s been awake for more than twenty-four hours straight and the world’s starting to look strange. When he hears someone clear their throat above him, he cracks an eye open, only to find Flint standing there with a distinctly impatient expression on his face. “Why are you on my bed, Wood?”

“Because I wanted to sleep, you weren’t back yet, and Alicia’s in mine.” And that silences Flint, because Alicia ran into Dementors alone and she is lucky to be alive; certainly, she’s in no state to travel elsewhere tonight. He knows by now that Flint, taciturn as he can be unless he’s being sarcastic, genuinely cares about the people he fights alongside at this point. Alicia wasn’t the only one who had had a rough evening; Angelina had come back bruised and silently furious in a way that exuded from the surface of her skin outwards, only relenting when the quiet insistence of the twins wore her down, conceding that while she didn’t need help, she did need rest. He notices when the other grits his teeth regardless, because he looks nearly as tired as Oliver feels. _Where was he tonight?_ And that, that’s the point where his brain to mouth filter completely malfunctions. “Just lie down, Flint, for Merlin’s sake. We’re both adults and there’s enough room. We can deal for one night while the girls are recovering, yeah?”

He sees the other take a moment to process the words, and just as clearly sees the moment of _fuck it_ before the other lies down next to him. He turns over and he can feel how cold Flint is at his back, can feel him shivering from being out in the night wind. That wakes Oliver up more fully, and he shifts then. “Merlin, you’re freezing. How long were you outside?”

“Long enough.”

Oliver rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “You’re an idiot, Marcus.” Reaching for his wand, he casts warming charms around the section of blankets surrounding the other, feels him slowly relax and stretch luxuriantly into the heat. The warmth is making him sleepy too, but not enough that he doesn’t catch the murmured remark in return. “Takes one to know one, Oliver.”

When Oliver wakes up a couple of hours later, disturbed from sleep by a nightmare, he doesn’t expect to find another body wound around his in the dark, to feel breath against the side of his neck. There’s something inexplicably comforting about it when he feels Marcus shift closer, half-wake with a soft grumble and sweep hands down Oliver’s spine before he settles again. He lets the physical contact calm the fear, resolves never to let the other know of it because it’s a weakness he can’t afford, and slowly but surely drifts into sleep again.

It’s the dim grey light of extraordinarily early morning when Oliver next registers some form of awareness, still tired, still not feeling quite right and distantly aware that he might never feel that way again. Not entirely lucid, he murmurs something nonsensical before finding a convenient place to bury his face into, but when the spot he chooses _moves_ , he grumbles his discontent and wakes more fully. It’s only then that he sees apprehensive dark eyes watching him, realises exactly _how_ close they’ve managed to twine themselves in sleep, and allows himself a momentary pang of embarrassment, a second to cringe about it. _You brought this on yourself by picking the wrong bed to steal._ Clearly, Flint’s waiting for him to flip out about it, but to a certain degree, he’s spending more time trying to wake himself up enough to fully comprehend that expression on the other’s face. He’s also sharply aware that this is the closest thing to safety that he’s probably experienced in months, because all of their senses of safety were destroyed a long time ago. Reaching up with a hand, he scrubs his eyes and then covers the yawn that follows. “Mm. Morning.”

And that’s when Flint shifts slightly, and _oh_ that’s an unintended pressure that sends a jolt through him, right from the base of his spine outwards. He manages to keep it from his facial expression, just about, but it’s a revelation he’s not prepared for. He realises that Marcus is biting his lower lip, that he’s nervous, and that’s not a revelation he can deal with this early either, and _for Christ’s sake_ how is he supposed to process this without coffee or some time to think it through? When the other disentangles an arm from the blankets to pick up his watch and check the time, he can’t help watching. When Marcus says, voice gruff, “Morning,” he catches the flash of uncertainty and knows that the other is no more used to this sort of situation than he is.

Despite himself, he can’t help the small, nagging feeling of disappointment, and forgets to school his expression, it’s near to written all over his face. He sees it when Marcus notices, and _that’s_ when he panics, _really panics_ , because _no_.

“Oliver?” There’s a question in the tone that he doesn’t know how to answer, that he can’t let himself answer. Instead, he concentrates very carefully on disentangling his legs from the blankets and from Marcus’, inch by inch, so that he can try to think his way through this. His head runs, ridiculously, with Quidditch strategies, of the best ways for Keepers to defend against Chasers, but the only thing that he can come up with is that he has no defence that will work against this, whatever it is. “I need coffee if I’m not going to get back to sleep,” he says, turning onto his side so that his back is to the other, and that’s a partial truth, but it’s definitely, definitely not all of it.

“Why don’t we?” He looks over his shoulder so fast that he almost gives himself whiplash, eyes snapping to Marcus’ face, and he’s close, too close. “It’s too early to be awake anyway, Wood, considering the time we stumbled in last night and the fact that neither of us slept through. So stop being a prat and shut your eyes.” The matter of fact tone to the words helps, but then the other is settling back into the blankets and _this was not part of the plan_ , because now he’s curled up against Oliver’s back and he’s not made of stone. His body moves almost before he can think it through, leaning back into the curve that Marcus’ body forms as though it was made to fit him. _Shit_.

Marcus, damn him, is already mostly asleep again, an ability that Oliver envies. It takes him a lot longer before he can switch off.

* * *

 

_ { You took me down, down, down, down / And **kissed** my lips with goodbye ) _

 

They don’t talk about that night, or that morning, or any of the things that neither of them said, because it’s never the right time or place after that. But Oliver finds himself listening for the familiar sound of Marcus’ steps if he’s back first from an Order mission, catches Marcus watching him at places like the breakfast table with a gaze he can’t divine the meaning of.

It isn’t until one night when it’s been _six hours_ and _he isn’t back_ that Oliver gets up from his bed and goes into the kitchen to wait, because he can’t sleep. Some of the others are still up too, one by one going to bed at his insistence. He even sends George and Alicia, who are taking the night watch, to go and sleep, even though he doubts that any of them will settle until everyone is back where they’re meant to be. “You two need the rest, and I can’t switch off, so I might as well do the watching tonight. Any idea when we’re actually supposed to be expecting Flint back?” The studied casualness to the words isn’t as easy as he’d like it to be, particularly when Alicia gives George a look and then shakes her head. “No. He went with Bill and Kingsley tonight. I’m not sure what they’ve got him doing.” A worried frown creases her forehead, and Oliver hates to see it. “They should all have been back by now, but main headquarters contacted us and they’ve not heard anything either.”

Even knowing the formidable combined skills of Bill, Kingsley and Marcus respectively, Oliver can’t relax, and he settles into an armchair with a cup of coffee at his elbow that goes cold. The clock ticks to eight hours of absence, almost eight and a half, before he hears a sound at the door signalling someone’s presence there. He’s on his feet with wand drawn immediately, and he points it outwards as Marcus stumbles through the door, drenched and slightly wild-eyed and clearly not expecting to see Oliver standing there. He stills, and for a moment all Oliver feels is relief, until he remembers that he’s been waiting for _eight hours or more_ and he still needs to check that this is definitely Marcus. “What injuries of mine did you heal when we first met again?”

“Head injury and you had a perforated eardrum that Hestia dealt with.”

This covered, Oliver strides forward, because abruptly, he’s absolutely furious with Marcus. “Where in the name of deepest hell were you _?_ ” He hisses the words between his teeth and his expression must be something to behold, because the other actually takes a step back when Oliver is finally level with him. “You’ve been gone for hours longer than you were supposed to be, did you even _think_ to send a Patronus to let us all know you were all right?” It takes only seconds for him to register the shock in the dark-haired Chaser’s eyes, and it’s then that he realises that the other wasn’t aware that people were worried for his safety. Somehow, it only makes him angrier. “Do you honestly think none of us care what happens to you, you stupid, stubborn bastard? When you’ve stuck around this long and watched all of our backs, time and again? The only reason I’m the only one here is because I sent the others to bed, or they’d have been waiting too.”

“Oliver…” And it’s then that he sees Marcus is shaking like a leaf, his face is too pale and his eyes are too wide, and he stops. “What happened?”

When Marcus just shakes his head with a low, plaintive sound, Oliver is moving closer before he thinks it through and wrapping arms around him. When the other yields to it, all but collapses against him and buries face into his neck, it’s a shock. “They were Muggle-baiting.” The words are choked, and it feels as though Marcus has pulled them from some depth that should have been unreachable. “It was bad.”

And those last three words are all that Oliver needs to hear, because he can feel the effort in the lines of the other’s body, how much it’s taking for him not to just come apart at the seams. And this, this must have been why he was so late, because he couldn’t just come straight back and let everyone see him like this. Oliver doesn’t bother with platitudes, he just steers the other over to the armchair nearest to the fire and sits him in it. He doesn’t bother with the polite façade of tea with a slug of brandy, either. He waves his wand and summons the bottle of Firewhiskey, rinses his coffee cup with a spell and pours a generous amount into it. He puts it into Marcus’ hands, closes his own fingers over it and guides it to the other’s mouth. A couple of sips and the tremors have subsided and a small amount of colour has come back into the Slytherin’s face.

“Better?” he asks, voice significantly gentler, hands still curved around Marcus’, half-knelt beside the arm-chair.

The other nods, just barely, in a way that tells Oliver he isn’t really but he’s trying, and then pulls his hands away, taking another, longer drink that empties the coffee mug of its contents altogether before setting it to one side. Then he closes fingers back around Oliver’s, and there’s something altogether too close to desperation in the clutch of them. “I don’t think I can talk about it.” There’s a plea for understanding in his voice, and Oliver watches him, brushes thumb over the back of his hand. “I wasn’t going to ask you to, unless you needed it.” He lets go, after a moment, but only to draw his wand and softly murmur incantations for drying charms, before determining that Marcus’ clothes are too sodden for that to be of much use. “You need to go and get changed and dried off.”

Marcus looks down at himself, and it obviously hasn’t occurred to him at all. Oliver huffs out a quiet breath and pulls the other to his feet, but that has the effect of bringing them an inch apart and _oh, hell_ , this is not the moment.

Apparently, Marcus doesn’t care if this is not the moment, because he lifts his hands to gently frame Oliver’s jaw. “Thought for a second tonight that I might not be coming back,” he murmurs, and Oliver _freezes_ at the very idea, at the fact that the other has just admitted to even that much. “And do you know what was in my head, at that second?”

Mute, held quiescent by the sound of his voice, the touch of hands, Oliver can’t even breathe, much less shake his head.

“All I could think was ‘fuck, Wood’s going to be so pissed at me.’ Not, ‘fuck, I think I’m gonna die.’ That was my thought. That you’d be pissed at me if I didn’t come out in one piece.” An attempt at a laugh follows the words, but it’s a ghost of the usual sound. “After everything else I saw tonight, I’m so tired of shadows. They’re filling me up and sometimes I think I might drown.”

He’s voicing the dark thoughts that Oliver’s had himself, late at night and alone in bed and scared of what the future might hold, despite the fact that they’re fighting for it no matter what happens. And Marcus isn’t done. “But every time I feel like this time, it’s going to happen and that I’m not going to be able to keep going, you show up and needle me back into living, goad me into one more day. Or you wait up for me, for hours, and tell me that people actually care whether I live or die. What the hell am I supposed to do with that, Oliver?”

His hands are shaking again. That’s all that Oliver can register, besides the words that are proving with every passing second which one of them is really braver. His hands are shaking.

“So, for Merlin’s sake, if you don’t want me to kiss you, stop me _now_. Tell me that you don’t want this, and I won’t do it.” And his hands are touching the nape of Oliver’s neck, angling his face up, and there’s only the span of longing separating them, too close and too far at the same time.

“I can’t.” The words are whispered, and Oliver doesn’t realise he’s said them out loud until he sees Marcus’ face _fall_ , feels his grip start to loosen, before he lifts his hands and curls them around the other’s wrists to hold him in place; his skin’s still cold and clammy and damp with rainwater beneath his touch. “I can’t tell you I don’t want this.” And at last, he has a name for the feeling that’s been gnawing at him for the whole evening: fear, fear of losing Marcus before they ever had a chance, because he hadn’t had the courage to step forward and meet what was in front of him.

Then Marcus’ lips are on his, warmer and softer than they have any right to be, and he tastes like Firewhiskey and salt water, like smoke and coming home in the middle of the night. The moment quiets the burn that has always been between them into something deeper, something excruciatingly tender and far more frightening, because they can’t undo this, can’t close their eyes on tonight and go on living in the morning as if it didn’t happen. It changes everything. Marcus’ mouth opens to his, and Oliver shudders and he _wants_ , wants so badly that he doesn’t trust himself. When they finally part, there’s reluctance to do so in the way that they linger in each other’s space, the way that they watch each other, taking in every small detail, so that they can remember this, the sensation of being fully awake to each other.

Oliver knows they’re both exhausted, but he still doesn’t want to leave Marcus that night, leave him to try and sleep alone. So he doesn’t, waits for the other to change and dry off and then fits himself into bed beside him, tries not to notice that the space there is carved as though it’s been waiting for him all this time.

He doesn’t let himself think that _maybe, it has been._

**Author's Note:**

> I was prompted by Erin, who suggested Dangerously by Charlie Puth, and Wait For It from Hamilton as prompts. This is my response to Dangerously.


End file.
